


The Price of Lies

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Incest, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Parent/Child Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Fantasy, Sibling Incest, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:46:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: After seeing Jaime and Cersei together under the skulls of the Targaryen dragons, Tywin can’t rid himself of the sight. If Jamie is sleeping with Cersei, why can’t he?





	1. Tywin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mossy_Moondark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossy_Moondark/gifts).



> Dear Mossy_Moondark,  
> I hope you enjoy this little story! Thank you for the wonderful prompt.
> 
> A huge thanks to my awesome beta reader <3

**Tywin**  

* 

For a long time, Tywin had been aware of the rumors surrounding his children’s illicit relationship; the slander broke like the sea against the cliffs of Casterly Rock, and Tywin remained stoically unimpressed by the disgusting gossip. But then, an assault raging long enough will hollow even the sturdiest stone.

Tywin would no longer feign ignorance. A couple of weeks ago he had instructed his most trustworthy guards to spy on his twins in secrecy, day and night; each morning he’d been informed about their activities long before the sun broke the day. Within a fortnight Tywin could ignore it no longer.

There’s another letter, Tywin’s eyes wander along the delicately written lines, then he feeds the letter to the flames. Knowing the truth himself is one thing, acknowledging that others do too is a different matter entirely.

Anger rises and he begins to pace the room like beast behind iron bars, cold morning sun peaking through the window. Tywin is caged. He is a slave to his own ambitions, has always been, at last brought to life the day he had laid Rhaegar’s dead children before Robert’s throne; a careful calculation.

Calculating extends beyond the political, Tywin finds, as he considers his children. There is a pattern to Jaime’s nightly visit: Cersei would go to Jaime for everyone to see, usually late in the afternoon, every couple of days to chatter with him about idle things; Jaime would grow restless afterwards, so Tywin had been told, when night lays its veil across Kings Landing. Jaime ventures to his sister’s quarters. That is how it unfolds most often, but not always. Sometimes, both his children slip out into the dead of the night down the gloomy hallways, to where the skulls of the Targaryen dragons had found eternal rest. Deep down in the bowels of the Red Keep the rumors had found their validation, or so at least his soldiers had reported back to him.

Sadly, an unfortunate accident had happened to the men on their way back to Casterly Rock. A pity, truly. They had been such good and loyal soldiers. 

Tywin had marked all occasions and reports on a secret roster, carefully twice locked away. Nobody must ever know about it, especially not that he has any insight to this madness. 

It is late, long past midnight; despite endless pacing, Tywin’s mind won’t find rest. He sits down at his desk and pulls the roster out from beneath a pile of folded scrolls, tapping his fingertips on the marked dates. His eyes widen just a little, realizing that their next encounter is due today. Given his calculations are correct, that is, but he has no doubts. He stands and paces the room again, the silence only disrupted by the _click click click_ of his boots before he leaves his rooms. Tywin walks down the stairs of the Tower of the Hand.

“I wish to be alone,” he tells the guard who immediately falls into step behind him.

From the reports he had received, Tywin knows the places where Cersei and Jaime meet, but it isn’t until he stands in the bowels of the Red Keep that he truly understands the implications. The Targaryens wed brother and sister without shame since the days Aegon the Conqueror took both his sisters for wives; and right there, under the dragons’ great skulls his own children stand, caught in a lover’s embrace.

“Jaime,” Cersei says, her voice desperate and filled with longing.

“Sweet sister.” The words fall into the space between their lips.

There it is, Tywin’s final proof; he sees his legacy set ablaze. 

They are so occupied with each other that there’s little chance Tywin would be noticed if he withdrew back towards the stairs.

Yet he does not.

He doesn’t move.

Nor does he put an immediate end to what he sees.

He’ll see to that later. Not now.

Tywin lingers...so do his eyes.

The fact that they are kissing is, by all standards, unspeakable; the sight of it is not. Tywin is surprised by his own reaction: he is hard.

There is something strangely familiar in the way his daughter moans her brother’s name; the way she cups his face and searches for his lips. Never has Cersei looked more like Joanna; golden curls tumbling across her shoulders, lips parting when Jaime kisses her throat. The words his children speak to each other are lost on Tywin, whose mind is fixed on the way they speak with caresses and kisses.

He doesn’t touch himself; not there, not then. As he forces his wandering hand to stillness he knows that he won’t be able to resist in the privacy of his chambers.

Once he’s back in the Tower of the Hand, having left long after his children, he can’t restrain his thoughts nor his hand, not even bothering to undress. The touch of his own hand is desperate, devoid of all gentleness, and Tywin can’t remember when last his willpower has forsaken him in such a way. He tries to keep the picture in his mind’s eye from blurring. Disgusting as it is, he wishes the sight of his own children to prevail in his imagination; to see his daughter bucking into his son’s hand.

He had never tasted the truly forbidden, even though he had married his own cousin. Still, he finds himself yearning for his own flesh, strong and powerful, an impossible desire to quench. 

And why should he not, indeed, desire such folly in the autumn of his life, Tywin wonders, when everything he has worked for, the path he had paved and built for his children, his legacy has crumbled to ash? Why should he not have what Jaime has been having all these years? And as he fists his cock for the last few times, a strangled cry disrupting the silence, his decision is final. 

  
  



	2. Cersei

**Cersei**

*****

The knock on the door is unexpected, startling Cersei out of sweet slumber. It’s late; well beyond the time a decent visitor would come to call. For a moment, caught between the haze of sleep and clarity of wakefulness, Cersei feels her heart flutter frantically. 

Only Jaime would come to her in the middle of the night, although, of late, less and less frequently. She still feels his fingers against her throat, his lips upon hers, and the ache in her cunt his cock has left behind. She slowly rises.

The air is cold for King’s landing, even so late at night, and the hairs on Cersei’s arms raise.

Her guard ́s voice crushes her excitement.

“Your father, my lady,” he announces from the other side of the door, calm and stoic, like the well-trained dog he is .

Cersei sighs. “A moment to allow me to get dressed.”

She’d receive Jaime as she is, in a nightgown made of the finest silks pooling around her body, almost translucent in its delicacy. But out of all people, her father least of all, she would never step before anyone like this. The night robe, emerald fabric with tiny pearls of gold, is still damp from the bath Cersei had taken. After meeting with Jaime. Cersei picks it up from a nearby chair and dresses.

Cersei walks from her bedroom into her private study, where she receives all guests who aren’t Jaime and her gaze falls on her father. He is seated in one of the plush velvet chairs.

“Father.” She conceals her surprise about his visit by schooling her expression.  

Lord Tywin doesn’t bother to stand. “A word in private.”

“Of course.” She dismisses her guard with a delicate flick of her hand. 

Cersei eyes her father with suspicion. There’s something different about him tonight, something she cannot decipher. With every passing moment that he does not speak, Cersei’s feeling of unease grows stronger. Something about him is wrong. 

At last Tywin speaks. “For a long time, I did not believe the disgusting rumors about you,” he tells her, hands folded below his chin.

Cersei feels her jaw working, as she looks away. The rumors never only concern her, but he pretends – as always – that Jaime, his golden boy and heir, could never be a part of this. She feels his icy gaze upon her face, weighing and measuring.

Anger arises, and she feels unable to conceal it any more. It would be foolish to lash out though, so she suppresses the ire as best she can. “What do you want?”

He remains silent and allows the silence to speak for him. She knows that he loves doing that; Cersei is no stranger to her father’s idle games. Yet she would not fall into his traps. Not she, not now.

“Much. You can start with the truth.”

He knows already, what is the point in asking then? “We’ve been always there; right in front you for so many years. If you had only ever looked and paid attention to anything your actual children did and do, instead of troubling yourself with legacy, you would have seen.” Cersei paces the room.

“That is, what in the end, matters. All that matters. You seem intent on making that terribly difficult for me.”

Her laugh is bitter. “Your legacy, everything you have worked for all your life is built on a lie. It must be terrible to live with that knowledge, I imagine.” Pride shines from her eyes as she stubbornly holds his gaze. 

“Apparently so.” He rubs his chin, then stands.

 

For a brief moment, she’s confused.

“You are young enough to marry and breed again,” he states with such indifference that her blood runs cold. She isn’t a bitch in heat, no breeding stock.  

“I won’t do it, father. Not again.” Cersei’s eyes are full of defiance.

“Such shyness, so very unlike yourself,” he tells her, not without taking delight in the way she reacts. “Your pride grows with every passing year so at least it is said, yet what I saw earlier did not exactly speak of a proud lioness – rather of a bitch in heat.” 

Jaime’s touch seems still to linger on her skin. “You cannot –”

He cuts her off. “I can. And I did. Do you truly believe I confront you without having acquired the final proof? Oh, you think you are clever, you always do - but you are not half as clever as you think you are.”

He looked her up and down; despite being dressed, Cersei feels exposed to his gaze. Tension is slowly rising, and not of the sort she welcomes when she is with Jaime. Defiance gives way to utter shock as she begins to understand why her father truly has come to her. 

“No.” The word is a whisper, barely there.

He strides towards her, boots clicking loudly on the floor and although she doesn’t want to cower before him, she evades the closeness, goes one step back for every step her father takes forward until her back hits her desk. 

“No?” He towers over her, shoulders squared.

Her throat is suddenly too dry to respond as terror sizes her. He puts one arm on either side of her, caging her against the table.

“How long has this been going on?” Tywin’s voice is menacing. 

“What does it matter?” She says. It takes extreme effort not to evade her father’s piercing gaze. “Like I said. If you had ever shown any interest in me – in us, you would have had your answer long ago.”

“You are right. It matters not,” he tells her, removing one arm from the table. Her gaze follows his hand towards the laces of his breeches and, horrified, she notices the immense bulge there. A flicker of approval ghosts upon his face, vanishing before she can even comprehend.

“You are by far more disgusting than I ever thought,” Cersei spits. She knows about Tysha, Jaime had told her long ago; she knows about her grandfather’s mistress’s fate, she knows how his mind works, so at least she likes to think, her own hypocrisy lost on her.

“Oh, am I?” Tywin does not sound at the least surprised – or even bothered by her insult, in a very unnerving way. “Be that as it may.”

The words hang in the silence. He lifts his hands towards her shoulders, let his fingers linger there for a moment before he opens the fastening of her powdering gown. Then, he pushes it off her shoulders. It falls to the floor with a rustling sound. Cersei presses her arms against her sides to prevent them from covering herself. She refuses to react as he thinks, and perhaps hopes, she would, trying to shield her nudity from her father’s eyes.

Cersei watches Tywin’s hands as they move from her shoulders back to his breeches. She watches as he undoes the laces and pulls his cock out, erect and swollen, its tip glistening wet. She has always thought Jaime was thick, and he certainly is, at least compared to Lancel. Compared to their father, however, Jaime rather isn’t and Cersei finds herself unable to look away.

“Yes,” she finally answers him, hissing and glaring in disgust. “You are repulsive.”

As he leans in and invades her personal space even further, hands splayed on her hips, Cersei’s mind rebels her situation. She tries to push him away as hard as she can, clawing and hammering at his doublet like the lioness she is.

He stills her hands with ease belying his age, delight flitting through his eyes. The grip around her wrists is like iron, cold and harsh and unrelenting. Tywin spins her around with ease and presses her against the table, hard. Cersei feels the twisting of her shoulders as her arms are pressed to the small of her back and her legs are forced apart by his knees.

A sudden chill ghosts over the parts of her skin that lay bare as he steps closer still; his thighs press against her own. She shudders and cries out as a cold hand cups her buttocks through her clothes, kneading until she begins to hurt. 

And then he bends Cersei over the desk. His erection pressed against her buttocks when he covers her body with his own. Tywin’s large frame traps her in the shadows, lips pressed against her ear. She’s forced to inhale his nauseating scent; to feel his hot breath wash over her naked skin. Bile gathers in her mouth, sour and bitter, and she wishes she could spit it right into her father’s face. 

She can’t do it, not being bent over her desk like this, powerless. But she struggles, tries to kick his shins with her bare feet. Cersei will not escape her fate by fighting, won’t dissuade him from raping her, but she won’t surrender. She’ll fight just as she has fought all her life, exactly how Lord Tywin had taught them since the moment his children were able to comprehend.

Even now, she hears his voice, a childhood memory come to life. The words echo wretched and twisted in her head now: The lion must never cower, always fight.  

Cersei holds her breath the moment she feels him reach between them, pressing her thighs together as best as she can with his legs between them. She knows what is next, tries to brace herself against the touch. As the tip of his finger brushes against her labia she flinches. 

When his finger enters her, Cersei is as dry as she could ever be. He must feel the resistance of her body as he forces his finger inside yet her father seems not to care. Unsurprising. When had her Lord father ever cared? Tywin withdraws his finger and pushes in again, harder and deeper this time; Cersei can feel the ring her grandfather gave his first-born son and heir. Cersei’s lips tremble from the pain, biting down on them hard to prevent herself from screaming out. She will not give him the satisfaction, still feebly kicking. 

Tywin must have seen the way Jaime whispered in Cersei’s ear; must have studied it until it was etched into his mind. Tywin’s tongue darts out to like the shell of Cersei’s ear until she is as pliable as molten wax in his hands. Her father’s voice trickles down her neck; where Jaime’s breath has felt like warm summer rain against her skin, caressing and soothing, Tywin’s feels like icicles, or so she tells herself.

She’s trying not to let his touch affect her, she’s desperately trying, yet her body betrays her. It responds to the way he whispers into her ear, the way he kisses her neck and touches her skin, rubbing her clit with his thumb until she gets wet between her legs. It’s the greatest humiliation, far worse than all the agony she’s had to endure. Cersei squeezes her eyes shut, forcing her mind to wander away from the wretched moment.

When his probing finger returns, he finds her wet though she cannot see her father’s face Cersei is certain that for the first time, in too many years to count, he’s smiling. He doesn’t bother to prepare her further; pain floods her as he guides his cock inside with one hand. With the other hand he presses her shoulders down, hard. 

Cersei whimpers and whines in a way she hasn’t since the night Jaime had taken her virginity, thrashing her head from side to side in pain. She’s certain it feels good to Tywin, seeing her like that. Tywin doesn’t allow her to adjust to the growing discomfort, doesn’t ask in silence if she’s okay like Jaime always does, before he begins to thrust shallowly into her.

She cannot take it. Not even half of it. She’s still somewhat sore from Jaime having his way with her the way she liked it best; she loves the way the feeling persists for days whenever they’d been together.  

No, she couldn’t must not think of Jaime, not now, not when their own father is forcing himself inside her. Cersei curses under her breath, venom in her voice and she struggles to evade the roll of his hips. There is nowhere she can go, not even an inch. The table in front of her, its edge pressing against her hip bones, her father’s body behind, pinning her down. She is a lioness caged, rendered helpless in the worst possible ways.

She swallows her cries of surprise and terror and burning frustration. Cersei wishes he just would take his pleasure and go, as the few times Robert had been allowed between her legs had done; take his pleasure and be done with it.

Tywin doesn’t. He never would.

He sees himself superior to any other man; he’d never behave like them, like a beast in rut

Exerting control is her father’s virtue; punishment his vice and she’d be a fool if she thinks he would be any different with her now. Instead of rutting against her like a dog until he’s sated, he takes his wretched time, each thrust, each kiss edging too close to gentleness. It’s strange to think about gentleness when her own father is raping her but how should she not when it’s exactly how he fucks her.

She knows it’s tactic; a very special sort of punishment for her, perhaps the worst of all. All he wishes for is to let her experience the shame of being made to climax by being taken against her will by her own father. His own pleasure is secondary, Cersei’s absolutely certain of that.

She knows the untruth of her thoughts even as she thinks them yet doesn’t stop them to flow out of her mouth in hopes to end the gentleness. “Was Tyrion made this way?” Cersei says through gritted teeth. “Is it the true reason he is as he is”

For once she’s not mistaken. He fists her golden locks and forces her head off the table. “Be careful with that mouth of yours.”

Lions are not known to be gentle creatures; she feels teeth against her skin right after it, hands clawing, just so that it would never show once she was dressed again. The pain is by far easier to endure than gentleness, until once more he begins to whisper in her ear.

 _‘So good for me.’_ The words drip like honey from Tywin’s lips.

It sickens her and yet at the same time it brings forth a strange warmth, spreading from her stomach through her body and for a second she relishes in the words of praise. The sickness of all of it still coils and fights inside of her, snarls and whispers and she feels so terribly wretched as she begins to savor the rhythm, the way her own father fucks her. Her reaction repulses Cersei but then, how should she ever forget all the years she’s been starving for his praise, never been the focus of his attention?

It’s been Jaime. Always.

The golden heir.

Right now, it’s them and them alone.

She despises him for yet another atrocities against his own family but all the more she despises herself for the way he makes her feel. It'd be so easy to simply pretend it’s Jaime who fucks her, Jaime with a thicker cock and for a second she closes her eyes and lets the illusion reign; to lose herself in the arousal she undoubtedly feels amidst all the pain.

It’s as if her father reads her mind. He withdraws and flips her over with ease so that she’s forced to look him right into his face. “You best dare not think of him whilst you are with me. Is that understood?”

She swallows hard, searching his eyes, golden sparks amidst a sea of green, with the candlelight reflecting in it. The last spark of defiance forces the words out of her mouth before she can think better of it. “Just as you should not think of her.”

She feels hot and cold and even as she says it knows her own mistake; she will not cower, will apologize for being careless with her words in his presence. Whatever it is that reigns his mind then, whatever punishment it’ll be, she’ll take it... endure it.

There’s a smile in his voice. “Do you love him, or only the reflection of yourself in him?”

Hot breath crawls along Cersei’s skin and it goes directly to her cunt and she hates him for it. For what he does next, she hates him all the more. He kisses her, hard and intense, driving his tongue into her mouth until she almost chokes. She fights against the press of his lips against her own, tries to shut her mouth and surprisingly she even succeeds for a moment. She tries to push him away, yet at the same time she claws at his shoulders, hard enough to bruise. He fucks her, hard and fast as if her struggle beneath him only adds to his arousal and damn, it’s just in a way she likes it. His thrusts are still steady and well-calculated – even in fucking he could not let go of his true self, Cersei thinks before he kisses her yet again.

She doesn’t beg for more attention, doesn’t have to beg for it as his hand slip between their bodies, rubbing her clit until she couldn’t stifle the moan when finally her climax washes over her.

She lies on the desk, bruised and broken, coming back to herself with Tywin still taking his pleasure from her sore cunt. All of a sudden it’s too much; the way his cock feels inside her, how he grips her hips to prevent her body from moving, yet worst of all is the way he looks down on her.

Judging.

Scolding.

Mocking.

Just as he always has.

And yet he keeps fucking her, setting a relentless rhythm, each thrust harder than the one before.  

“Father,” she half-whispers and half-cries, and then, as if that little word is everything he wishes to hear he spends inside her, panting and grunting above her. The look of orgasm on his face is wretched and ugly and Cersei knows she won’t forget it as long as she lives.

“Get up,” he tells her the moment he let his soft cock slip out of her, seed dripping down onto her desk. She follows the command like a child starved for their parents’ approval, standing before him on shaking legs, waiting.

He takes his time, then wipes his cock with the expansive fabric of her dressing gown, his cold, dead eyes fixed on her. Her nightgown is torn, almost ripped open from his assault, and she looks at him with wet eyes and heaving chest. Shame and humiliation burns brightly upon her face as there’s nothing else she can do than stand there. He hasn’t dismissed her and she doesn’t dare to defy him, not even now. It’s obvious what delight he takes in her humiliation, in the way his seed runs down her thighs, wet, sticky and disgusting.

Only a fool would hope to be offered a cloth to clean herself. Cersei’s is no fool and just as she’s been expecting it, her father lets the fabric fall onto the floor as he tucks his cock back into his breeches.

“The Morning Star is ready to depart at sunset, bound to Lannisport,” he tells her, wiping his hands on his arms. His voice is leveled without even a hint of what had just happened. 

She interrupts him. “Or?”

“Or,” he repeats her word, rubbing his whiskers as if he just ponders another option. 

“Or, henceforth you will walk up the stairs of the Tower of the Hand each morning and evening – and serve without arrogance, without carrying the smell of your own brother.”

Cersei feels her throat constrict.

Tommen.

Jaime.

Perhaps… “I will do it.”

“So I have thought.” For the first time in a lifetime, Cersei sees the notion of a smile flitted across her father’s face and strange as it may be, she feels relieved, at least for the briefest of moments.  “You will board the Morning Star regardless since I will not tolerate you and your degenerated morals at court a moment longer. Your personal guards, including Ser Gregor are to accompany you to Casterly Rock, they were already instructed. Surely, you’ll understand that the capital has become less safe with each passing day, just as they.”

“I’m Queen Regent,” she yells at him.

“Above all else you are … still my daughter.” She is familiar with the way he looks at her, has seen it so often in his conversations with Tyrion and knows that it is a lie. 

“In a fortnight you will wed again,” he says, then falls silent and for once, Cersei does not dare to interrupt. “You will consume that marriage, even if that means I personally have to see to that so that my child you’ll perhaps carry is born under appropriate circumstances.” Again, he lets the silence speak for him until a tear falls from Cersei's eyes “I have exchanged the Maester at Casterly Rock and you will not find a Maester within a league of Lannisport who’ll provide you with moon tea if you just thought about that, which I doubt. The child could as well be my son’s – you would never kill it.”

Cersei closes her eyes and inhales deeply before she looks at him again. “No,” she says and turns around, leaving to keep the last of her secrets safe.

*

 

 


End file.
